Duty Calls
by sasha1600
Summary: Things don’t go entirely smoothly when Gibbs is called away as a reservist. Warning: spanking of adult. Don’t like? Don’t read!
1. Chapter 1

**Duty Calls**

**Summary:** Things don't go entirely smoothly when Gibbs is called away as a reservist. **Warning:** spanking of adult. Don't like? Don't read!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them, I just play with them.

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A/N: This is part of my discipline series and builds on a larger plot arc, but it should make sense on its own. This takes place after Stakeout and before Dog Tags.

Thanks to AislingK who asked a question that inspired this story.

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**Warning: this story contains the discipline spanking of an adult. If you have a problem with that, click on that 'back' button now. You've been warned.**

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Tony sat down at his desk and flicked on his computer. It seemed to take longer than usual to boot up, and he glared at it impatiently. He _really_ needed to finish going through Cmdr. Davis's financial records before Gibbs got into the office.

Twenty minutes later, he heard the ding of the elevator. _Shit_, he thought, knowing that there weren't many people likely to be coming in at 0630. _The one morning I need time to finish something up, and Gibbs decides to get in extra extra early_. He looked up, hoping that his being in the office working would at least take the edge off Gibbs's anger about him not being finished yet.

To his surprise, Gibbs was striding towards him dressed in his Marines uniform.

'Oh, good. You're here. Saves me leaving you a note.'

'Uh, Boss?'

Tony scanned his eyes over the uniform, his question clear. He wasn't surprised not to get an answer.

'These are my notes on the Davis case. You're taking over.'

Tony took the stack of folders he was handed.

'What's going on?'

'I'm going to be at Quantico, teaching an advanced training programme for snipers.'

'You're going undercover?'

'No, Tony, I'm going to be teaching an advanced training programme for snipers.'

'For real?'

'Yes, for real!'

'Why you?'

Gibbs didn't respond, just arched an eyebrow.

'I mean, of course you _can_ teach the course. But... uh... you're not even in the Marines anymore...'

'Still in the Reserves, DiNozzo.'

'Yeah, _inactive_ reserves! You haven't done the one-weekend-a-month stuff since Director Morrow chewed you out for having to get Mike Finnegan to take over a murder investigation so you could go jump out of an airplane, and made you stop.'

'Well, they needed someone to teach the class at the last minute, and I'm it. The guy who was supposed to be doing it got killed two days ago...'

'Iraq?'

'Canada.'

'We're at war with Canada?'

Gibbs slapped him upside the head.

'He was hunting with an old buddy.'

'And the buddy shoots as well as Cheney?'

'Car accident. Hit a moose.'

Tony burst out laughing.

'He was hunting, but the moose killed _him_?!'

Gibbs smacked him again before turning on his heel and heading back towards the elevator.

'I'll be back in two weeks. Try not to torture McGee too much...' he called, before the doors shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Gibbs watched his Marines taking aim at a distant target. They were sprawled on their stomachs, buried in leaves and branches, trying to get off their shots without making their camouflaging shrubbery move enough to give away their position.

'Aaaaaaa-CHOOOO!'

Gibbs spun around, easily identify the source of the sneeze by the still-swaying pine branch.

'Kirkland! You're dead.'

Gibbs kicked his boot solidly.

'You just told everyone within half a mile where you are.'

'Maybe more...'

Gibbs turned to glare at the Marine who had made the snide comment. The younger man withered and went back to his own practising.

'Sorry, Gunny...'

'Don't apologise, Kirkland. Just don't _sneeze_.'

'It's an _involuntary_ reaction, Gunny! How'm I supposed to...'

'Press really hard, right here,' Gibbs demonstrated, pressing the side of his finger against the space between his upper lip and his nose. 'There's a nerve. Enough pressure suppresses the sneeze.'

'Really? Cool!'

'Uh, Gunny? It's actually dangerous to suppress a sneeze. It can cause serious...'

Gibbs turned to glare, again, at the same Marine who had tried making a joke about the volume of the sneeze. 'It's _less_ dangerous than getting shot by an enemy sniper, Martinez!' Gibbs growled impatiently.

He'd done a lot of teaching, of course, both with his team and, before that, with the younger men in his unit. But this was more formal, and he'd been surprised how much he enjoyed the new role. And even though he'd only known these men for a bit more than a week, he already thought of them as _his_ people. Being back in the Corps, sharing that indelible bond with these young Marines, had made him grow surprisingly attached to his students, considering that their lives would only intersect for these few weeks. And he was responsible for training them in skills that might one day save their lives, and the lives of other Marines, which made him even more inclined to make sure he did this right.

But that didn't stop him from thinking that Martinez was a pain in the ass.

He'd dealt with every kind of Marine over the years, from the ones who were so eager to be the perfect soldier that they were a hazard to everyone around them, to the ones who'd been bullied by their parents, their teachers or a well-meaning judge into an unwanted enlistment and were determined not to put a single ounce of energy into it, and all the myriad varieties of good and honourable men in between. Martinez was the kind of overgrown high school bully who talked back to his superiors and tried to intimidate his teammates. He was a damn good shot, or he wouldn't be in this programme.

But, as far as Gibbs was concerned, he needed a sharp lesson in responsibility more than he needed advanced training with a sniper's rifle.


	3. Chapter 3

Gibbs finished checking the equipment his class had been using back into the lock-up, then headed into the main office of the training centre. He needed to check his mail before going to the mess hall for dinner.

The piece of paper he was waiting for was in the cubby-hole that passed for a mailbox. He barely glanced at it, knowing what it would say, and moved towards the tiny institutional box that they'd given him as an office. He didn't use it much – he was out on the range most of the day – but the insane amount of paperwork the short course produced was all in the desk. He still thought it was ridiculous that he needed formal approval from the programme co-ordinator just to add an exercise to the approved curriculum he'd inherited, but he might as well file the permission form with the rest of it.

He flipped open a folder and dropped the form on top. He was about to close the file, but something caught his eye.

'Not approved.'

Gibbs fished his glasses out of his pocket and re-read the words entered in the comments box. Then he read them again.

He still didn't entirely believe what his eyes were telling him.

It just didn't make sense to him to run a sniper training programme, especially one that claimed to be 'advanced,' and not have a night-time shooting requirement. After all, a lot of what snipers did, they did under cover of darkness. And being able to make a clean shot while relying on night-vision goggles was a special skill. One only acquired through training and practice. He couldn't understand why there wasn't already a night exercise as part of the programme.

And he sure as hell couldn't understand why the co-ordinator had disallowed the addition, when he'd explained why it was needed in meticulous detail.

It didn't help that he actually liked Colonel Johnston. He was a bureaucrat and an administrator, as the job required him to be, but he was sensible and down-to-earth. Gibbs had been thinking just yesterday that it had been a while since he'd had a CO he actually respected and whose command he accepted without reservation. He'd slid back into his Marine persona effortlessly, the 'Yes, Sir!'s and the salutes as ingrained as breathing. But there were always some officers whom one respected personally, not just for their rank, and the Colonel was one of those men.

It was a stark contrast to what he'd grown used to at NCIS. He liked Jenny, but she would forever be his probie, and his lover. He never really accepted her authority, or followed her decisions without a power struggle. He rarely even used her title, and then more as a sign of annoyance than of respect. If she had been the one to deny him permission to modify a training programme, he would have ignored her without a second thought, and done what he thought was best for his team.

It was more difficult to disregard something like this coming from Colonel Johnston. He couldn't just dismiss it as the posturing of an overinflated ego or an uninformed decision by someone unqualified to judge. And his conviction that his men needed this training was competing against a lifetime of conditioning not to disobey a direct order.

Realising he couldn't do anything about it this evening anyway, he closed the file and stuck it into a drawer for the night. He'd try to see the Colonel first thing in the morning, before getting started on the day's lessons. For the moment, he'd go grab dinner. With a bit of luck, he'd run into someone putting together a card game or something for the evening. He was going stir-crazy, without his boat.


	4. Chapter 4

Gibbs cast an appraising eye over his Marines, seeking out the almost invisible forms that even he, knowing where to look, could barely see. They'd been lying motionless, concealed under leaves and branches, since a little before dusk. It was now fully dark, heavy cloud cover obscuring a thin sliver of moon.

There had been exactly one complaint about it being cold and damp. His bellowed response had ensured that the rest of his disgruntled students kept their opinions to themselves.

He whistled softly, giving them, finally, the long-awaited signal to acquire and take out their assigned targets.

A fraction of a second later, he saw movement through the night-vision scope that he had trained on the range. Some dense shrubbery was swaying too violently for the gentle wind. Sure it was just a racoon, he nonetheless trilled quietly twice, giving the 'don't fire' command. He stared intently at the bush, waiting for the furry masked intruder to reveal itself and allow the exercise to continue.

To his horror, he saw a human figure emerge from the underbrush, mere feet away from the line of targets he had set up hours earlier. He immediately called out a verbal 'hold fire' command, making sure that everyone heard him, even though there was no way his men could miss the presence of the trespasser and they would surely have enough sense not to shoot. A few seconds later, three more forms appeared, joining the first in an oblivious stroll across the firing range.

Gibbs leapt to his feet, grabbing the loudspeaker that would let his voice carry to the intruders. He could tell from the way they were moving that they were most likely civilians, although he didn't have the slightest idea what they were doing wandering around a Marine base in the middle of the night. They were about to become very unhappy civilians, he thought angrily.

Suddenly, a shot rang out.

The small group froze, only one of them having enough common sense to dive to the ground. Gibbs barked a hasty order at them through the loudspeaker, telling them not to move, before turning his back on them, not even bothering to make sure that they intended to stay put.

Several of his men had dropped their rifles and raised their hands, as if they expected their pissed-off instructor to shoot first and ask questions later. A chorus of 'wasn't me, Gunny!' met his questioning glare. Setting down the loudspeaker and night-vision goggles, he strode quickly along the row of Marines, checking each of their rifles as he passed.

It didn't take long to find the one that had just been fired.

Delegating to the highest-ranked of his students the task of securing the trespassers, Gibbs seized Lance Corporal Albert Martinez by the collar and dragged him into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Gibbs pushed open the door of the training centre and shoved Martinez roughly inside. The younger man stumbled briefly, but quickly regained his footing and turned to face his angry instructor with a defiant glare.

'What the _hell_ were you thinking, Martinez?!'

'You gave the go-ahead to shoot, Gunny...'

'And then I gave you a direct order _not_ to! And anyone with an ounce of sense could figure out _not to fire when there are people on the goddamn range!_'

'They shouldn't have been there, Gunny...'

'No shit, Martinez! But that doesn't mean you can just _shoot_ them!'

'If I'd been trying to shoot them, they wouldn't still be standing, Gunny. Just wanted to teach them a little lesson...'

'Yeah? Well, now it's my turn to teach _you_ a lesson.'

Gibbs reached for his belt.

'It takes discipline to be a good sniper, Martinez. Patience. Self-control. Between the smart-ass comments and the know-it-all attitude, I don't know how you made it this far. You're still acting like a damn teenager who's desperate for attention, any attention. Well, you've got mine! That was over the line, and you damn well know it!'

Martinez didn't seem particularly surprised to find himself facing a furious gunny who was folding his belt in half and gesturing for him to bend over a table, and _that_ surprised Gibbs. He wondered briefly if there were still enough old-fashioned hard-ass COs in the Corps for this to be a common scene. The younger Marine turned around and leaned forward, the indignant expression on his face making it perfectly clear that his compliance did not signal any degree of regret about his behaviour.

Gibbs raised his arm.

Suddenly, the door behind him slammed open. 'GUNNERY SERGEANT GIBBS!' Colonel Johnston bellowed. Gibbs turned, his arm frozen in mid-air.

'My office! NOW!'


	6. Chapter 6

Gibbs stood at attention in front of his CO's desk, his muscles aching with the strain of holding the rigid pose. He'd forgotten how unpleasant the simple rituals of Marine discipline could be. He couldn't see a clock from where he was standing, and he knew better than to try to sneak a glance at his watch, but he was sure it had been at least an hour and still no 'at ease' command was forthcoming.

They'd already been over what had happened, in excruciating detail. How Gibbs had spoken to Colonel Johnston about the rejected proposal to amend the curriculum, and had had the opportunity to make his case – again – for adding a night exercise. How the Colonel had again denied permission. How Gibbs had taken it upon himself to do the exercise anyway, knowing full well that he was disobeying a direct order. How he had believed that he was acting in the best interest of his students, providing them with a training opportunity that he felt was vital. How he had decided to substitute his own judgement on the issue for that of his commanding officer. How things had then gone spectacularly wrong.

Colonel Johnston was now leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled, watching him with a disconcertingly speculative expression.

It had been a long time since Gibbs had been in this position. Physically, of course, it had been years since he'd been in uniform regularly, and even longer since it had been more than sporadic drilling as a reservist. Combing his memory, he figured it was nearly two decades since he'd been genuinely chewed out by a military CO. But it had also been years since he'd been on the receiving end of a dressing-down that he had to admit he deserved. Jenny's ineffectual harping about his routine end-runs around proper procedures had never had any real impact on him. He hadn't felt this unpleasant gnawing awareness that he really had screwed up, and that the censure he was facing was warranted, since Tom Morrow had left NCIS for Homeland Security.

He'd known there would be consequences for his decision to go ahead with the exercise. He just hadn't expected that he would care.

He was startled out of his reverie by a sudden question that shattered the oppressive silence.

'Did it even _occur_ to you that I might have a _reason_ for denying your request, Gunny? That it wasn't just some capricious, arbitrary abuse of power designed to make your life difficult?'

Gibbs could hear a subtle change in the Colonel's tone. The military hierarchy was still very clear. There could be no question that he was a non-comm facing a senior officer. But there was also a tacit recognition that they were both in positions of leadership and responsibility, they both had to make decisions that affected others, and they both had dedicated their lives to serving the same goals. His respect for the man went up another notch; even while taking a subordinate to task for a massive screw-up, he wasn't throwing his weight around just because he could, and he was even giving him more credit than a lot of officers would, in any situation.

'I never thought it was capricious, Sir.'

'Then what?'

'Inertia. I assumed it was just easier...'

'You don't think I want those men to get the best training we can give them? But as long as I've got civilians who think we're hiding evidence of UFOs or some damn nonsense they got from a TV show and are sneaking onto my base a couple times a week, I can't risk anything with live fire after dark.'

'If you'd told me _that_, I would...'

'Well, it didn't occur to me that you would disobey a direct order just because you didn't like it, Gibbs!'

'It won't happen again, Sir.'

'That's easy to say when your assignment is almost over. That's what you were counting on, wasn't it, Gunny? You figured you're only here for another few days, so I wouldn't be able to respond to your actions, even if I wanted to bother. So you thought I'd let you just get away with it.'

'I'll accept whatever consequences the Colonel sees fit to impose,' Gibbs answered formally, not admitting that the man had been right.

'And you figured there isn't much I could do to you, that you'd give a damn about! A formal reprimand in your file won't have much of an impact, and even busting you down to Staff Sergeant isn't going to make much difference to you at this stage. As far as you're concerned, there _aren't_ any consequences that can make you even hesitate before doing what you think is appropriate, instead of following orders.'

'Sir, I...'

'And you're right, as far as _formal_ consequences are concerned. And that's why I have no intention of dealing with this on the record.'

Gibbs swallowed hard. The Colonel was right. He had considered the likely consequences of disobeying the order, and had decided that none of them was much of a deterrent, not when he was convinced that his men needed the training for night-time missions. But the reminder that he'd entirely dismissed his CO's authority as irrelevant made him uncomfortable, especially since he'd spent much of this evening realising that he _did_ still care about official censure. And that he cared about this man's disapproval.

Colonel Johnston stood up and rounded his desk, unbuckling his belt. Gibbs took a deep breath, still at attention, steeling himself for the inevitable order. He'd known what 'off the record' was likely to mean, but his stomach still flipped over at the confirmation. He'd endured worse pain than a leather belt could inflict, over the years, but he was still unhappy about the prospect of what he was sure would be a hard whipping.

The Colonel slid the belt from its loops and folded it in half, snapping it sharply. He nodded towards the desk.

'Bend over.'

Gibbs nodded and offered a quiet 'yessir' before taking two steps forward and leaning over the solid wood desk, gripping the edges tightly and setting his teeth against the pain he knew was coming.

He was barely in position before the first stroke landed without warning. A wave of pure fire burned through him. His breath caught in his throat. Another lash followed immediately, giving him no time to recover.

Again and again the belt landed, with barely a second between strokes, hard enough to make holding still difficult. The pain grew with each searing blaze of leather, the rough fabric of his BDUs offering no protection against the onslaught. He ground his teeth together, each ragged breath a gasp as he struggled against the instinct to leap to his feet and snatch the belt from the Colonel's hand.

This was one of the worst whippings of his life, he realised, his face contorted in agony, as he flinched involuntarily away from another blazing stroke.

And if it had been a long time since he'd been dressed down by someone he respected, it had been longer since he'd been whipped and had it mean anything. He'd only co-operated with Jenny's discipline because she'd backed him into a corner, and he'd merely been humouring Ducky; it had hurt, physically, on those occasions, but it hadn't meant anything more than physical pain. With Morrow, and with Mike Franks before that, he'd known he deserved it and had accepted it, and the anguish had been mental as well as physical.

But even that had been easier to take than the gut-wrenching knowledge that he was being flogged by his CO in a ritual as old as the profession, and that he had earned this punishment by violating one of the most basic foundations of military life.

It seemed an eternity before it finally ended. Gibbs blinked hard and struggled to catch his breath, not even trying to rise from his prone position. He willed the fiery throbbing to subside, painfully aware that he'd rarely been this sore after a whipping and that his ass would continue to hurt for days.

Finally, slowly, he pushed himself up from the desk and straightened to attention, his eyes watery as he faced Colonel Johnston, who was threading his belt back into place.

'I don't care what you're used to getting away with at NCIS, Gibbs, but when you're wearing that uniform, you'll damn well act like a Marine!'

'Yes, Sir,' Gibbs choked out, still breathing heavily.

The Colonel held his eyes for a long moment before turning away and pulling a bottle of water out of a small fridge in the corner of his office. He handed it to Gibbs, who took it gratefully, nodding his thanks before twisting off the cap and taking a long drink. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat before speaking.

'Colonel, about Lance Corporal Martinez...'

'Martinez is not your problem anymore, Gunny. His ass is going to be out of the Corps as soon as I can arrange it.'

'Sir, he's a damn good shot, and he's young... with the right attention, he could be a good Marine.'

'Gibbs, he's already had every opportunity the Corps can give him, and he's had plenty of _attention_. He's still insubordinate, mean-spirited, and doesn't have the good sense God gave a potato.'

'Kid like that, he'll never respond to a by-the-book approach. If you let me try...'

'I'm not talking about formal reprimands. His Gunny for the last eight months learned from the best.' Johnston paused, smirking, before continuing, 'If Zachary Donovan can't knock some sense into that kid, no one can.'

Gibbs smiled, acknowledging the compliment. He'd worn out a couple of belts on young Private Donovan, having seen the potential under the teenager's recklessness.

'There's just no reaching some people, Gibbs, no matter how effective your methods. And Martinez just used up his last chance.'

Gibbs nodded, reluctantly agreeing with the assessment.

'I'll take care of Martinez, Gunny. You're dismissed. Go hit the rack.'

'Yes, Sir,' Gibbs replied, saluting sharply. Colonel Johnston returned the salute, and Gibbs turned on his heel, taking a painful step towards the door.

'You're still a damn good Marine, Gibbs,' the Colonel called after him. 'Don't make me remind you again.'

'Thank you, Sir,' he replied, reaching for the handle, uncomfortably aware that it sounded like he was thanking the man for whipping him. Then again, he thought, in some ways, he was.


	7. Chapter 7

Gibbs stepped out of the elevator carrying his usual cup of coffee.

Yesterday had been difficult, trying to get through the last day of the training programme. Keeping his balance on the mechanised platform that simulated the rolling of a ship's deck had strained muscles that were already sore, and had ensured that his ass continued to hurt like hell. He'd then had to sit through writing final reports on his students, and an interminable final meeting with Colonel Johnston. By the time he'd driven back to DC, he'd felt like his ass was on fire.

Even now, walking was more painful than Gibbs would like, and he was hoping to find enough excuses to avoid sitting down much today.

'Boss! You're back!'

Tim McGee's delighted shout brought him out of his quiet thoughts. The younger man seemed positively jubilant about his return, and he suspected that Tony had been making the most of his status as the senior agent.

'Hey, Boss! How's it feel to be able to ditch the uniform again? 'Cuz I gotta tell you, I never could understand how you managed to take orders all those years, the way you don't like doing what anybody else tells you to do. I mean, just ask Fornell, or even the Director. And I've _never_ been able to find a decent cup of coffee on a Marine base. So I'm thinking, by now, you're probably... OW! Good to have you back, Boss.'

Gibbs set the coffee on his desk and turned back towards Tony, who was still exaggeratedly rubbing the back of his head.

'DiNozzo! Report!'

'We solved the Davis case, Boss, and the Director has had us working on cold cases for the past week. The probie thought he'd found something on one of them, but the guy's been dead for two years so we can't exactly follow up on that.'

'So, how much did it turn out Davis embezzled, in the end?'

'It was just the thirty grand we knew about. We went through _everything_, and trust me, there's not another penny missing from anything Davis had access to.'

'You're telling me a _Commander_ threw his career away for _thirty thousand dollars_?!'

'It wasn't the Commander, Boss.'

'What are you talking about, McGee? When I left, you said you had proof that the money went missing from the account when he logged in from his home computer using his own password, and ended up in a whatsit account that you also traced to his computer... aside from the man being an idiot, how was it not him?'

'It was his eleven-year-old daughter. His password was the name of a pet he'd had as a child, with 3s instead of Es. She guessed it, got into his system, and transferred the money to a PayPal account that she'd set up, not her dad.'

Gibbs scrubbed a hand over his eyes. The world just kept getting stranger.

'Ok. So you got the money back...'

'Actually, Boss, she'd already spent it.'

'How the _hell_ does an eleven-year-old girl spend _thirty thousand dollars_?!'

'Itunes, mainly....'

'Eye-whats?'

'She spent it on music, Boss.'

'She spent _thirty thousand dollars_ on _music_?!'

'Mainly. She spent some of it on external hard-drives to store the MP3s...'

Gibbs stared at him blankly.

'Computer equipment for digital music files.'

'Ok. It's wrapped up?'

'Yes, Boss. The Director's already signed off on it. Case closed.'

'Ok. I'm going to go check in with her.'

He retrieved his coffee and headed off, hoping he wasn't moving too awkwardly, and that nobody noticed that he wasn't taking the stairs two at a time, like he usually did.

It was nearly an hour later when he finally returned to the bullpen, having chatted with Jenny as long as he could get away with, then visited both Abby and Ducky before reluctantly making his way back to his desk.

'Where's DiNozzo?'

'With the Director. Something about his report on the cold case we were looking at.'

'Ok.'

Gibbs stood at his desk for a long moment, moving papers around in apparent distraction, then carefully sat down, making sure to keep his face expressionless at the flare of pain. Ignoring the tenderness as much as possible, he switched on his computer and reached for his phone to check for messages, not noticing Tim's astonished eyes on him.

A few very uncomfortable minutes later, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up, finding Tim hovering sheepishly near his desk.

'What, McGee?'

'Uh, I thought... uh... maybe you'd... uh...'

Tim gave up trying to speak and just held out the pillow that he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk.

Gibbs smiled self-deprecatingly and stood up, accepting the offering.

'Thanks, Tim. That obvious, huh?'

McGee flushed and refused to meet his eyes, nodding sheepishly before adding, 'No, um... probably not... to someone who hasn't... um... been there. Um... lately.'

Gibbs swallowed a laugh at the earnest innocence of his youngest agent, and positioned the pillow on his chair before carefully sitting down again. When he looked up again, Tim had retreated to his own desk and was trying to look busy, apparently embarrassed by the knowledge that his mentor had messed up badly enough to be spanked.

Gibbs went back to sorting through the accumulated memos that he'd missed while he was away, very much looking forward to the end of the day.

And wondering just how long he could avoid cases at Quantico.


End file.
